"That's all right!" said Vincent, with an air of relief. "Now what does he
say to you?" My letter was a longer one. It ran:
MY DEAR YOUNG MAN,--_I am going to be very frank with you, and
to say that, though I liked you very much, I nearly decided that
I could not ask you to join us. I will tell you why. I am not
sure that you are not too easy-going and impulsive. We should all
find you agreeable, and I am sure you would find the whole thing
great fun at first; but I rather think you would get bored. It
does not seem to me as if you had ever had the smallest
discipline, and I doubt if you have ever disciplined yourself;
and discipline is a tiresome thing, unless you like it. I think
you are quick, receptive, and polite--all that is to the good.
But are you serious? I found in you a very quick perception, and
you held up a flattering mirror with great spontaneity to my mind
and heart--that was probably why I liked you so much. But I don't
want people here to reflect me or anyone else. The whole point of
my scheme is independence, with just enough discipline to keep
things together, like the hem on a handkerchief._
_But you may have a try, if you wish; and in any case, I think
you will have a pleasant three months here, and make us all sorry
to lose you if you do not return. I have told your friend Vincent
he can come, and I think he is more likely to stay than you are,
because he is more himself. I don't suppose that he took in the
whole place and the idea of it as quickly as you did. I expect
you could write a very interesting description of it, and I don't
expect he could._
_Still, I will say that I shall be truly sorry if, after this
letter, you decide not to come to us. I like your company; and I
shall not get tired of it. But to be more frank still, I think
you are one of those charming and sympathetic people who is tough
inside, with a toughness which is based on the determination to
find things amusing and interesting--and that is not the sort of
toughness I can do anything with. People like yourself are
incapable as a rule of suffering, whatever happens to them. It's
a very happy disposition, but it does not grow. You are sensitive
enough, but I don't want sensitiveness, I want men who are not
sensitive, and who yet can suffer at not getting nearer and more
quickly than they can to the purpose ahead of them, whatever that
may be. It is a stiff sort of thing that I want. I can help to
make a stiff nature pliable; I'm not very good at making a
pliable nature stiff. That's the truth._
_So I shall be delighted--more than you think--if you say
"Yes." but in a way more hopeful about you if you say "No."_
_Come with Vincent, if you come; and as soon as you like.--Ever
yours truly,_